


Of love and cuddles on the sofa

by Yesilian



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Virgin Sherlock, bottomlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-13
Updated: 2016-11-13
Packaged: 2018-08-30 18:44:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8544883
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yesilian/pseuds/Yesilian
Summary: When John moves back into Baker Street, the boys start on that path that has been destined for them from the very beginning. Without misunderstandings, but with a lot of love and patience, they start what should have been theirs forever.





	

John never really unpacked. He had a few jeans and shirts in rotation, a handful of underwear and socks that were laundered every few days. His books stayed in their boxes as did his DVDs, as did his everything.

Sherlock was going through John's belongings, as you do, one morning when John was out. It puzzled him. When John had come back, Sherlock had been sure it was for good this time. With all John had gone through he must know it would be only reasonable to stay with Sherlock for the rest of his life. Surely he must know this.

Even interpersonally they were in a good place. There weren't any secrets left between the two men, no big ones at least. Everyone had secrets, that was not the problem. It's choosing which to share and which to forget about. No, they were as honest as they ever were to each other. They trusted each other.

And still John didn't believe he'd stay at Baker Street for long enough to unpack. Sherlock didn't understand.

He thumbed through a stack of photos he had found in an old shoe box beneath layers of thing until he found one of himself and John. It wasn't a very good shot, they weren't even standing together. But it was one where both of them were in the frame. It was the only one like that Sherlock could find. He sat down on the bed and looked at the picture in his hand. No, it wasn't particularly good. If this was all John had to remind him of the two of them together, that was atrocious. That was nothing at all. Maybe Sherlock had misinterpreted him? People took pictures of people they like. They are sentimental like that. Millions of pictures of people with their heads together or arms around each other on the internet. Screaming 'I met this person. We talked. We like each other.'. And the best John had of Sherlock and himself was one without any interaction at all. They could have been strangers, accidentally caught in the same frame by an unassuming artist, but completely ignorant of each other's existence.

There had been photos, once, of them both. Taken at John's wedding day. But John had thrown them all away because he didn't want to be reminded of what that had set in motion. Just like that. A day, an occurrence, not worth remembering. No, worse. Something that had to be forgotten at all costs.

And just like that Sherlock questioned his importance in John's life. John, who was ready to leave at a moment's notice. Who had nothing that would connect him to Sherlock.

Sherlock left the picture lying face up on John's bed, a question mark, and left the bedroom.

* * *

It was on John's bedside table the next day.

 

* * *

 

"Mrs Hudson, can I ask you a small favour?" John asked their landlady when she came up for a chat one evening.

"Of course, dear, what is it?" she said. She smiled, she liked being useful. She often hid behind her age and fragility, but that was a lie. She was robust and clever and she knew it.

John pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans. He activated the screen and tipped his finger to it a few times, a pecking, the sound of his slightly too long nail on the glass grabbing the attention of everyone in the room. Even Sherlock looked up, but John didn't notice anything.

"Can you come here, Sherlock, for a moment. Please," he added as an afterthought, always trying to teach his friend manners and forgetting his own over it. With a question on his face and a look at their landlady who shrugged her shoulders, Sherlock went to the couch and stood in front of John to wait for his next instructions. John was finally done doing things to his phone slowly and looked up at him with a beautiful, joyful smile. Immediately Sherlock noticed something give inside of him. Then John pulled him down by the wrist and Sherlock fell into the sofa more than he sat down.

"Can you take a picture of us?" John asked and handed his phone to Mrs Hudson whose eyes lit up with delight.

"Of course!"

"The flash is already turned on. Just make sure it looks good."

"I'm, I'm not dressed for a photo." Sherlock actually stuttered. This, he had not seen coming. He hated having his picture taken, always was too stiff for it, and the forced smile looked cruel, so he kept it to a frown. But he wanted to be in a picture with John. Only, he wanted to look good for it. Sherlock never looked good in pictures. It was almost sad if he could feel sad about his looks.

"You're fine," John assured him unaware of Sherlock's inner misery. "It's just for me, and you're always wearing a dressing gown." But Sherlock couldn't do it. He fidgeted and then he saw the disappointment on John's face when John caught on and realised Sherlock didn't want to.

"Okay," John said and now he _sounded_ disappointed too.

"No, no," Sherlock said quietly. He was miserable, but he thought about it for a moment and concluded that a disappointed John would make him even more miserable than looking bad in a photograph. He then took off his dressing gown and deposited it on the ground, out of frame of the photo. He smoothed his hair and his shirt, self-consciously aware of the other two people observing him and not looking at them.

"Okay," he half-whispered a moment later. John smiled at him and it felt like a reward. Sherlock felt himself relax minutely.

And then happened what had to happen, as John draped his arm over Sherlock's shoulder and sat closer. He faced the camera and Sherlock turned his head, unable to look anywhere else. John smiled, and he was so beautiful when he smiled, so of course Sherlock couldn't look anywhere else. He heard the first snap-sound of the fake shutter and was reminded of their landlady there to record the stupid, smitten look on his face. Sherlock turned deeply red and bent his head.

"No, come on," John said quietly, almost as if only speaking to him. "We'll take a few and then you can delete any you don't want me to see, okay?" Sherlock's answering nod was a few seconds coming and almost imperceptible, but then there it was. John turned his head further and when he said "Thank you" his nose was almost buried in Sherlock's hair. The sound of John inhaling only nearly drowned out that of the shutter. Sherlock glared at Mrs Hudson and she, completely unapologetic, snapped another photo. John laughed and that was another picture right there.

Sherlock couldn't relax. John didn't ask him to, which made Sherlock grateful, but he was only too well aware that he was the one ruining their picture. But John stayed patient throughout.

It took almost ten minutes and then he thanked Mrs Hudson for her service. When she handed John his phone back, he immediately gave it to Sherlock, as promised, to delete any photo he felt he had to.

"Just leave me one, okay?" John hadn't taken his arm away and he started chatting with Mrs Hudson while Sherlock muted their talk. He had to concentrate now and not fall victim to the overwhelming sensation of John's hand on his shoulder, lightly, or he would never be able to remove the incriminating evidence of his feelings. It was bad enough that their landlady had seen it, but then she saw it in their everyday interaction, any way. She was easy to dismiss.

There were a shocking amount of Sherlock looking ridiculously besotted and he deleted them all. In the rest he sat stiff as a board, sometimes looking uncomfortable, sometimes downright miserable. Well, he felt miserable, so there was that. Then there was the photo of Sherlock glaring at the camera and John laughing a big laugh. Sherlock wanted to, but he couldn't delete it. He couldn't. He sent it to his own email first and then removed it from John's phone. Maybe he would be able to crop himself out and keep the part with John. That would be acceptable. He’d be able to forget he was ever in the picture.

But then, only a few photos were left and he gave the phone back to John. John ignored it at first which, once more, Sherlock didn't understand. He had been so keen on taking these pictures, but then he wasn't even interested enough to look at them?

It became clearer when John ushered Mrs Hudson out of their flat shortly afterwards. He fell into the couch once more.

"Let's have a look then, shall we?" he said with another smile at Sherlock and started looking through the handful of shots. The last one in the list was the first one taken, with his nose in Sherlock's hair and Sherlock with a starting blush. John paused there for a long while and at the end, he swallowed heavily. Sherlock played with the cuff of his shirt meanwhile.

"I like this one," John said. His throat sounded scratchy. Sherlock looked at the picture instead of at him and he berated himself for not deleting it when he had the chance to. It just had been too difficult. They looked so close in the picture, and it almost looked deliberate and as if John enjoyed it, so Sherlock didn't have the heart to remove the photo. He hummed noncommittally. John turned his head and mustered him for a long moment during which Sherlock felt his heart beating faster and louder with every passing second, before John got up to see what he could do about dinner. But before that, he gave Sherlock's knee a gentle pat and squeeze.

 

* * *

 

Two days later, a picture of them both looking into the camera, John smiling and Sherlock markedly not, replaced the other one on John's bedside table. It was behind glass, no frame, held with clear plastic clips. Sherlock sat on the bed, a mug of coffee in his hands, and tried to figure out what it all meant. He couldn't, which was a disgrace to his profession. He left the mug behind when he left the room.

 

* * *

 

Sometimes, when they were sitting on the couch together and watching a movie, John would put his arm on the back rest. Then sometimes, his fingers would stroke through Sherlock's hair accidentally, when Sherlock moved. They watched a lot of movies lately. Sometimes, it was Sherlock who suggested it.

 

* * *

 

On one of Sherlock's daily visits to John's bedroom he took a book out of a box and left it like that.

"Are you in my room every day?" John asked that evening very by-the-by.

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock chastened, snorted, and thought, _yes_. John had his hand on the back rest behind Sherlock's neck and his fingers were slowly toying with the lock at the nape of Sherlock's neck. John pulled at it, rolled it around his finger, stroked the fine hairs with his thumb, then started again from the beginning. It was very difficult not the fall asleep to the hypnotic, predictable repetition.

"You need a haircut," John said and tugged in demonstration. Sherlock hummed.

 

* * *

 

It’s been two months when John sighed one Saturday morning over breakfast. Sherlock looked at him sharply, asked “What’s up?” and stopped eating, the toast hanging forgotten from his long hands, threatening to fall, honeyed face first.

“I suppose I should unpack,” John said with another sigh. As Sherlock didn’t know what to say or do, he picked up his toast again. At least his hands were busy then. John still looked miserable.

“God, I hate moving,” he muttered with a glare at his coffee.

“Then stay,” Sherlock told him quietly and took another big bite fearing John would ask him to repeat himself or explain and preparing an excuse to do neither, because you didn’t talk with your mouth full. Manners. But John only lit up and smiled.

“Okay,” he promised.

 

* * *

 

Sherlock wasn’t exactly helping unpacking. When John had moved out of his and Mary’s house, he hadn’t bothered with sorting anything, so everything simply went in a box and into the moving van. He had to do the sorting now.

One pile was for the bin, another for donations. Yet another: undecided, he would probably keep those. Other things were meant for laundry, there was stuff for the lounge and stuff for the kitchen. One hour in and John’s bedroom was in complete and utter chaos. In the middle of it all sat Sherlock, Indian style, sifting through John’s stuff while John kept sorting and putting things onto piles. From time to time John stopped in what he was doing and just looked at his friend, who reminded him of a sweet child in that moment, the way he was engrossed in titbits from John's past. When John couldn’t stop himself then, he ran his fingers through Sherlock’s hair or squeezed his shoulder, always smiling at Sherlock when he looked up at John as if he had forgotten he was not alone.

Sherlock was going through a box of John's old army things. Fatigues, medals and photos. Sherlock was obsessed with photos of John's. The pictures a person kept told one everything one needed to know about that person. What they cherished, who they are. Famous sights on their own are people who like to brag about their travels. Famous sights with smiling people in front are people who value company and an entertaining story more. John's pictures were full of people. Groups and groups of people, all smiling or laughing, tan and fit and young and so _alive_.

“You don’t have many pictures of me,” Sherlock said when he couldn’t hold the observation in. John turned to him and mustered the stack of photos in his hands. He waited with his answer till Sherlock looked at him.

“Those are my army pictures. I hadn’t yet met you then,” he explained patiently which made it easy for Sherlock to roll his eyes at him.

“I'm aware,” he stressed. “And that’s not at all what I meant. I meant in general. There are at least sixty different people in these photos alone, and more still if you take all the others into account. I’m in only a handful of them.” Sherlock swallowed suddenly. He didn’t want to sound petulant or childish. John's indulgent smile told him he was being both.

“You hate having your picture taken,” he reminded Sherlock. And Sherlock wanted to drop the topic then, because of course John was right, he always was. He turned his head back to the photos in his hand but he didn’t see anything.

“‘sides, I see you every day. You forget, you know. To make a memory of what you have every day?” Sherlock didn’t answer him and soon after, John was back at his boxes.

 

* * *

 

Later that day, when John had put most of his books wherever he found some space for them on the shelves and Sherlock lay on the sofa not helping, John handed him his phone with a bit of a wistful look on his face.

“Tell me what you can deduce of that,” he requested. Sherlock raised one brow and mustered him, but he couldn’t find an answer to his question in John. So he had to ask.

“Why?”

“Because you can deduce everything about a man from his phone, and I want to know what you make of mine.”

“I already know everything about you,” Sherlock said slowly. That hadn’t answered his question at all, and he hoped by asking another, slowly, that would give him enough time to find the why himself. “That would be cheating.”

John wasn’t annoyed or irritated or exasperated at Sherlock’s refusal. Nor was he giddy or excited at the prospect of watching Sherlock do what he did best. He just looked a bit sad but not the disappointed type.

“Pretend you don’t. Pretend this is somebody else’s phone and tell me what you know of them.” Sherlock did it then, because John had asked him to and he couldn't say no to something John _asked_ of him.

While he turned the phone over to look at it from all sides and then unlocked the screen to have a peek at the content, John sat down next to him. Sherlock went through the phone log, the text messages, photos and music. After a few minutes, he was ready.

“Good phone, but the cheaper mini version of the main edition. Well kept, about a year and a half old. This model came out three years ago, so bought at a discount when the next came out. Owner is a man. Default wallpaper still, default ringtones, no personalisation. Male, obviously. Type of the phone tells me he values quality, this is a very good phone still, but price says he’s also money-conscious. Either he’s cheap, or careful. Doesn’t want to spend too much. But if he were cheap, he’d treat the phone badly. There are barely any scratches on it, screen protector too. So not frugal then, economical.”

“Thanks,” John piped in which made it harder to pretend it wasn’t his phone, so Sherlock shot him a glare. John was utterly unimpressed by that. He nudged Sherlock’s shoulder with his, so Sherlock continued.

“Now, the content. I already said it’s a man, in his forties. Music on the phone is mostly from the eighties, lots of older jazz. Just one playlist in his music player, called ‘playlist’. He either really only has one that he listens to over and over again, or he doesn’t know how to create a new one. So instead he keeps adding and removing songs from the one that came with the app. That’s quite likely, actually.

“Only about 20 contacts in his contacts list, and half of his recent phone log is to only one number. Almost all other are just numbers, no names. Hasn't saved them as a contact. Hasn’t got lots of friends then, is probably somewhat of a loner. Not very social.”

“Why can’t he just have a small but dedicated circle of friends? Why’s he a loner? Not everyone has a hundred contacts, you know,” John interrupted Sherlock. Sherlock shook his head.

“True, but I’d say 90 percent of his text messages are directed at one person. He hasn’t got a small circle of friends, he has _one_ friend and a handful of acquaintances he doesn’t much care about. See, many of the text conversations with other people are left unanswered, even if they ended in a question. The most recent one is from a man named Greg and he asked him to come out for a pint. Who is Greg?” For the first time it was Sherlock who broke character and it was mean jealousy that made him do it. John stared at him pointedly until Sherlock remembered that that might be Lestrade’s first name. It was something with a G.

“Oh,” he said, reassured. Lestrade liked John, but he didn’t _like_ John.

“Go on,” John nudged again, “What else? Or is that all?” Sherlock shook his head no.

“Gallery. Hundreds of photos, at first glance a motley array of subjects, places, people. Only one person comes up many times, sometimes in those strange places, obviously working, sometimes in a more domestic setting. Clearly they are working together as well as living together, in a job that takes them around, likely some kind of investigative work. Maybe detectives, that would explain the vast array of subjects in most of the pictures. Evidence.” Sherlock stopped there. He looked at John quickly and then back at the phone before handing it over and ending with, “That’s all.”

“That’s it?” John pocketed the phone and looked dubious.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.

“What about that mystery person in the pictures. Is he the same one as the one this guy is always texting and calling? His only friend?” John pressed and Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

“Likely,” he said. “The contact name is a man’s name, the person in the pictures is a man. It suggests that they are the same person.”

“What is their relationship?” John asked innocently. Again, Sherlock shrugged.

“I don’t know,” he confessed quietly. He had no idea. Sherlock was constantly asking himself that very question. He didn’t dare raise his eyes. John was silent with him for a while, but when he talked, his voice was soothing.

“Phone guy only talks to one person, ever. Many of the pictures of mystery person in the domestic setting were taken with the same background and over many months, possibly years. The same flat then. Probably a flat they share. They share a flat, they work together, they talk and text all the time. Not many people can stand contact that close over such a long time, but they can. What does that tell you? _What is the nature of their relationship_?” Sherlock struggled for words. He knew what John wanted him to say, because put like that, it was obvious. Yet it wasn't true. The evidence wasn't sufficient. John's voice dropped low.

“I see you every day, Sherlock,” he said. “I don’t have to take photos of you because frankly, I can' bear to think there will ever be a day when I won’t see you. Still, I do it. Because sometimes, when I look at you, you take my breath away and I want to keep that with me forever. I don’t print the photos because that’s not our time anymore, but I also don’t put them into a box I take out once every five years.”

Sherlock had no idea how to react. He sat still in his seat and his brain was racing because surely John expected an answer, he deserved an answer. Only, Sherlock didn’t know what to say. As always, John helped him.

He pulled Sherlock into his arms and together they fell against the back of the couch. John's fingers found their way into Sherlock’s hair and he kept carding them through it long after Sherlock had tentatively put his arms around John's middle.

“Your hair is growing really long,” John told him after minutes.

“I have an appointment next Wednesday,” Sherlock answered glad for the change in subject, one where he knew what to say.

 

* * *

 

Next Wednesday they had a case. John privately thought it was barely a three, a four if he was being generous, but Sherlock acted as if it was the second coming.

“Come on, John!” he shouted at John when John took his time with locking their house door. He thought that petty theft in Watford wasn’t worth a break-in into their own home, not now that he had just gone through the trouble of unpacking everything and putting it away.

“Coming,” he yelled back and didn’t speed up a bit.

Sherlock missed his hair stylist’s appointment, naturally.

 

* * *

 

They were sitting on the couch, Sherlock on his computer and John reading a journal. John was running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as he was wont to do nowadays, playing with it, letting it curl around his fingers, straightening it out and starting all over again.

“Are you letting your hair grow deliberately?” he asked after maybe an hour. Sherlock stopped scrolling. He felt caught. How does one explain to John what John might not want to hear? He started squirming.

“Of course not,” Sherlock said coldly as if the notion alone was ridiculous. John hummed low in his throat.

“Okay,” he said and continued carding through the subject of their conversation, his attention back on his article. But Sherlock’s attention was disturbed. Minutes passed until he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You like me hair,” he said and noted how he sounded wounded. He winced. “You like playing with it. If I cut it, there won’t be much left for you to…” he didn’t know which word could end this sentence, he didn’t want to use ‘play’ again. His mouth snapped shut.

John chuckled.

“Is that why you’ve been running around looking more and more shaggy?” he asked laughing at Sherlock. Sherlock was insulted and a bit hurt, which only made John laugh harder. Yet there was a very warm glint in his eye.

“You like it when I 'play' with your hair,” he told Sherlock. “Mind, I love your hair, but as long as you don’t get a buzz cut, I’m fine. Besides, you’ve always kept it long. All I’m saying is, you should get a trim. If that’s okay what you want.” That was very placating. Like always when John said or did something that Sherlock had no reaction too, he kept staring ahead. John loved his hair. It was such a stupid thing to feel positively elevated about, but still, Sherlock felt like floating on John's adoration. For his hair.

 

* * *

 

John took Sherlock out for dinner. That wasn't strange or uncommon. Neither of them enjoyed cooking and takeaway got boring at some point, so they went out quite often. Yet Sherlock could tell this wasn't the reason behind why they were at a restaurant that night.

John proved him right when near the end of their meal he said the dreaded words, "I wanted to talk with you about something." Sherlock put his fork down rather loudly and felt the blood draining from his face. He felt cold all of a sudden and a slight shiver made him sway in his chair.

"Hey," ever-considerate John said calmly and put his hand over Sherlock's where it had fisted his serviette. "Shh, it's all right."

"How can it be all right? No good conversation ever started with 'We need to talk'. If 'we need to talk' then clearly something is wrong and I don't know what is wrong, I have no idea." Sherlock knew he was babbling and even he could hear how his voice had gone high-pitched with panic, but he couldn't stop it from doing that if he tried. "You have met someone! And now you're going to move out again. Or were you offered a job in another city?" John turned his hand around and put his palm into Sherlock's.

"Calm down, Sherlock. I promised I was never going to move out again, remember? You're stuck with me for as long as we both live. I haven't met someone, not that I'm even looking. I've not been offered another job. Nothing bad has happened or is going to. Everything is perfect." John looked Sherlock deep in the eyes, completely open and vulnerable and so honest until Sherlock had to believe him. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself. It took a minute and then he was able to continue their conversation. He nodded at John to go on and John rewarded him with a gentle squeeze.

"I'm _aware_ that 'talking' is not something either of us is good at, so I'll try to make this as short and painless as possible. I'm very happy with my life as it is right now and I know that is because of you and because of what we have. And it's because I'm so happy that we need to talk. Because we never did, before, and then I lost you and you can't tell me things would've gone the same way if you had known, earlier, how I felt about you. So here it is. I love you. I need you. I can't bear to be without you. You're the most important person in my life and I will do everything to keep you and to make you happy in return. So. There, I've said it." After a short while, John added it another time, just to drive the point home. " _I love you_."

Sherlock found breathing somewhat difficult. All his energy went into not having it show so it was another, longer, while before John's words registered fully and even then, Sherlock couldn't believe he had heard them right. He swore his heart jumped a bit around in his ribcage, which was ridiculous, as hearts were quite stationary. It would be a very serious condition indeed if they moved around inside one's body. Still, he felt light-headed. He must have misunderstood.

"You mean," Sherlock started when he had his breath under control. "A friend." He nodded, mostly to himself, because of course, that made sense. "I too. You. That is to say," he cleared his throat. "I love you, too." By then Sherlock had gathered enough courage to look at John again, but what he found on the man's face wasn't reassuring. John smiled, amused, laughter in the corner of his eye. It was kind of insulting. Before Sherlock could do more than draw an insulted breath, though, John squeezed his hand.

"While that is very nice," he said and Sherlock cringed. _Nice_. "That is not what I meant. At all. And I hope you'll still return my feelings when I tell you they are romantic, but even if you don't, that doesn't change a thing." And here, John grew serious again. He leaned slightly forward in his chair. "I meant what I said. To me, you're the most important person and I've been a fool not to tell you earlier. And if you'll have me, in whatever way you're comfortable with, that's all I'm asking." The look he gave Sherlock was asking for understanding, but Sherlock wasn't sure he did.

"Whatever I'm comfortable with?" he asked. John nodded. "What, what does that entail?"

"Anything. Anything at all."

"Kissing?" It was the first thing that came to Sherlock's mind. He bit his lip, feeling stupid. He had said it so eagerly. How maudlin, how _ordinary_ that that was the first thing he thought of. But still, John only smiled and nodded again.

"Yeah."

Encouraged by John's lack of ridicule, Sherlock kept going. "Holding hands? Tou-, touching?" John nodded every time and Sherlock took a deep breath. Funny, how difficult it was to say such a short word. Just one syllable. "Sex?" Only three letters. He hadn’t even stuttered saying it.

"Yes." John's voice sounded a bit scratchy.

"Okay," Sherlock whispered. He mustered the pattern of his serviette. He had never noticed it before, how strange that he would see it now. A thought hit him. "Now?" he asked and was unsure whether he wanted to or not. He did, he very much wanted it, the sooner the better, to be quite frank, but then... Maybe, yes, perhaps he was, a little bit, nervous. The curl of John's lips was infuriating.

"No," he said and Sherlock glared at him for making fun of him.

"Obviously," Sherlock tugged at his serviette until it lay perfectly even on his lap, parallel to the table edge, "I didn't mean _now_ now. I meant later, tonight." He dared a glance at John.

"I know what you meant," John informed him.

"All right then."

"All right."

 

* * *

 

Holding hands felt weird. Good, too, because touching John always felt good no matter in what way Sherlock was allowed to do it, but the whole thing of his hand being unable to move on its own was still weird. Every time he moved his arm, John's arm moved too. When his nose itched and he scratched it, John's hand stroked against his cheek. Which was extraordinarily good, but also weird. Sherlock kept moving his arm and in the end, he didn't know what to think about the whole thing.

"Are you conducting an experiment?" John asked good-naturedly when they were almost home. Sherlock realised then that yes, he was. He felt ashamed. Surely you weren't supposed to experiment on intimacy.

"Sorry," he apologised and stopped doing it. John stopped walking.

"I know this is new for you, so I want you to know that you can do whatever you want. If you're not comfortable with anything, and I mean anything, you're allowed to say so. In fact, I want you to say so. Promise me that you'll always tell me if I'm doing something you don't like."

 

* * *

 

John would have never in a thousand years kissed Sherlock. While some kinds of touch were okay, that just was crossing a line. Much too intimate. So it was Sherlock himself who started it, as it had to be.

John had been gone for two nights which just wasn't acceptable, according to Sherlock.

"I had to _cook_ ," he complained loudly and hugged John to himself.

"You're a good cook," John reminded him good-naturedly. He liked this too much to try and hide it. Sherlock's arms around him, his indignation about John having the gall to leave Sherlock behind for something as insignificant as a family visit, when no-one had even died. It was nice to be missed.

"I had to talk to Mrs Hudson!"

"She adores you. You like talking to people who adore you."

"I can barely stand listening to you."

"Well, cheers, mate," John gave back, exchanging one insult with another. Sherlock loathed being called mate by John. He hissed now and hugged John closer, tighter, as if punishing him by pressing all the air out of his lungs. It would have worked too had John not enjoyed it so much. He patted the small of Sherlock's back, dangerously close to the swell of his arse.

"I'm glad you're back," Sherlock said eventually and then he did it. His lips found John's cheek and he pressed them against the dry skin in a sound kiss. Immediately afterwards, because he was embarrassed of it, he hid his face in John's shoulder where it glowed hotly even through multiple layers of cloth. John was too surprised to do much except bury his hand in Sherlock's curls and press down reassuringly until Sherlock was ready to face the world again after his slip.

He did it again, later that same day, when John presented him with the blossoms of a very rare poisonous plant that his aunt had been able to cultivate and he had thought would interest Sherlock, alongside with some of her custom-made soil and fertilizer. Sherlock looked at the cleanly labelled jars and his face showed all the difficulties he had in reconciling the unassuming man in front of him with the riches in his hands.

"Thank you," he said wondrously before he pressed a kiss not quite into John's cheek, but somewhere next to his nose. He hid the blush by bounding off into the kitchen to look at his new treasures under the microscope while John wondered what to make of this latest development.

John was still thinking about where this sudden change had come from and whether it might be there to stay, when it happened again. He was sitting on the couch after dinner, comfortably tired after a large meal and an eventful weekend and just staring at whatever was on the telly when Sherlock joined him. Without any thought John's hand found its usual place on the nape of Sherlock's neck and he started carding his fingers through the strands of hair there. As if on cue, Sherlock sank into John's shoulder and kissed him gently on the jaw.

"You're very affectionate today," John said in surprise and despite knowing that they didn't talk about this, ever, because acknowledging it would mean to deal with it, like grownups, and they so weren't ready to behave like grownups when it came to this. It had to be enough that they knew they were on the same page when it came to their feeling for one another, but anything beyond that was unspeakable. Sherlock surprised him even more when he just shrugged.

"I've missed you," was all he added to the conversation, and, "Don't get used to it." John chuckled. They stopped talking then, with Sherlock's head on John's shoulder and John's fingers in his hair.

 

* * *

 

It wasn't long after the kissing had started, that it got a bit more one afternoon. They had just solved a case, a minor one, a four at most, not that their hormones ever took notice of Sherlock's subjective rating. Even so the adrenaline was pumping through their veins and the men were laughing high off their own cleverness. In the kitchen, Sherlock pulled John's face up to press his lips against the shorter man's. It was a bit clumsy and chaste, Sherlock was obviously out of practice, but John didn't care too much. He delved into the kiss, took over control. Sherlock's hands fell to John's shoulders and he held on to the ride as John shoved him against the table. He hooked his hands under Sherlock's knees and hoisted him up to sit on it while he put long legs around his waist. John never broke the kiss. Soon Sherlock was making little sounds that could be described as whimpering. John grinned against his mouth.

"I love the way I can make you sound," he growled and bit Sherlock's lip playfully. It was a full-grown whimper then. Sherlock clenched his arms behind John's neck while John started alternately biting and licking Sherlock's neck. Shortly thereafter he started pumping his groin against Sherlock's.

"Bed?" John asked breathlessly. Sherlock could only nod. With a dark, low laugh John pulled the other man flush against him and lifted him clean off the table onto his waist to carry him all the way to the nearest bedroom. Sherlock buried his head in John's neck and John could feel the heat of his flushed skin against his own. He loved it.

It reminded John to take it a bit slower, because if Sherlock was embarrassed by the proceedings, then maybe he wasn't yet ready for what John's hormones had in mind. Carefully he put Sherlock down on the bed and lay down half on top of him. He let his hand run the length of Sherlock's neck, all two miles of it, and he sought Sherlock's eyes.

"Are you okay? Is this?" John asked quietly when he had Sherlock's full attention. Sherlock nodded and John saw his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed compulsively.

"Yes," Sherlock said at last. He tried to smile confidently at John but the confidence behind the words got lost somewhere along the way. Instead of saying anything, John kissed him again. His hands found their now familiar way into Sherlock's hair and Sherlock pulled him closer by the hips. His hold was bruising in its strength and still John could tell that he wasn't so much trying to make sure that John was close, but holding on for dear life. John tried to talk to him.

"Hey, hey." Sherlock had his eyes closed tightly at first but opened them after a while. John smiled down at him. "We don't have to do anything. Why don't we just snog a bit, hm?"

"But I want to," Sherlock claimed petulantly. John smiled, probably over-fondly judging by Sherlock's frown. So he kissed that away.

"Hm, I can tell you do." He pushed against the very prominent bulge in Sherlock's trousers. His mouth was watering at the thought of what was hidden below all that fabric, but for now John had to content with Sherlock's mouth.

After a few minutes, he felt Sherlock's grip on him loosening and his hands slid around to John's zip. But it was the trembling hands that really grabbed John's attention. Sherlock couldn't even unbutton John's trousers, so stiff and shaking were they. He sighed disgusted with himself.

"Why am I this nervous?" he asked miserably without looking at John. He brought one of his shivering hands up to shield his eyes. "I've wanted this for so long! I dream about it every night!" John rolled off the other man and took his hand from his eyes.

"And you'll still want it in a few days, or weeks, when we try again. Just because your body wants it doesn't mean your mind is ready, too." Sherlock looked at him utterly insulted then.

"I'm not a teenager!" he protested disgusted. John laughed and kissed him.

"There's no rush, here, Sherlock. I'm not going anywhere."

"But you like sex!" Sherlock's voice was so quiet but John could hear the worry loud and clear.

"I'm not going anywhere," he repeated earnestly. At last Sherlock looked at him again. He searched John's face corner to corner for the truth of his words. When he found him sincere, Sherlock smiled shyly.

"Thank you," he said. John laughed and kissed him.

"Anything." They kissed some more.

 

* * *

 

Most of the changes in their relationship had happened in the privacy of their flat. They've become cuddly, John and Sherlock, John thought with a smile. So many evenings spent in front of the telly, not for whatever was on, but for the chance to brush against each other innocently. As if it wasn't at all calculated to create an opportunity to touch the other person.

So, with that in mind, it wasn't very surprising that outside of their little circle of friends, nobody saw a change taking place in the first place.

Sherlock had been called in to assist in a kidnapping. The partner of the niece of the mayor was gone, no trace, no note, not even a ransom request. As it was a prominent case, the Met was understandably interested in solving it quickly and that's why they had asked for Sherlock's assistance.

The young woman, barely out of her teens, was absolutely distraught. She refused to leave and gave them every help they asked for. She was a pretty, young woman and John hated how that made him feel more sympathetic for her. But with everything going on, he was absolutely sure she had nothing to do with the disappearance of her boyfriend.

"Poor thing," one of the sergeants on the scene muttered to John. They were standing a way apart from Sherlock and her. Her eyes were red from crying, but she was determined to be of any assistance and holding strong. John could tell that Sherlock liked that about her.

"And she's so young, and pretty," the other man, whose name John didn't know, carried on. John was annoyed at him, but even more so when he had to confess that he had thought the same thing. Sherlock's arrival at his side stopped him from saying something he might have regretted.

"She knows nothing," Sherlock said. He sounded tired to John and John cocked his head in a silent question. Usually, Sherlock would have been excited at the puzzle. He wasn't this time. Sherlock sighed.

"The boyfriend's almost certainly dead," he said quietly, taking care that the mayor's niece couldn't hear him. "You know the statistics on kidnapping as well as I do. Our only hope is to find out who did it and why. Give her some sort of closure." John's face fell, as did the other sergeant's.

"Poor girl," the man repeated and Sherlock paid him attention for the first time. His face hardened somewhat, John noticed. The officer misinterpreted this change in his expression.

"You have never experienced it, but Dr Watson and I both know what it is to lose the one person you loved most in this world. It's just not something you'll ever recover from, is it?" And well, John had to agree. He'd do anything not to have a repeat of that time and sometimes, like in that moment, just the reminder of it put a damper to his mood. His face fell and the sergeant gave him a sympathetic pat on the back that John answered with a weak smile.

Only when Sherlock turned on the spot, a swirl of his coat the only sound, and left, did John realise that the sergeant had been talking about _Mary_ and that John was the only one who had not understood that. It hadn’t even occurred to him that that was what people thought about him and his ex-wife, but then, he supposed, they hadn’t known the full story of his “loss”.

 

* * *

 

John could tell that the comment about Mary being John's great loss was grating on Sherlock, but he felt helpless as to what to do to make him feel better. John hated this, hated this all. He had something good, no great even, with Sherlock, that was still in its baby shoes and he didn't want to put too much pressure on the other man. There was no doubt in John's mind about who the love of his life really was. It was the mad man he had shared years with and would share many more to come. Mary had always ever only been a fill-in, only possible because Sherlock had been gone for good, or so John had thought, then. Everybody knew that. Well, of course they didn't. But they must have thought it.

"Sherlock," John started when they were safe again behind the closed doors of their home.

"Don't, John," Sherlock said wearily. He walked away and into the kitchen where he filled water into the kettle. John let his head hang. How he hated this.

"I'm not good at this," he said quietly. He hadn't meant for Sherlock to hear him, but the man picked it up with his superhuman hearing.

"Then don't. Forget it. What do I care what some imbecile who only knows you through other people's words thinks?" Sherlock switched the kettle off. Apparently, he didn't want that tea after all. He made no move and stood in the kitchen, and the way his shoulders slumped broke John's heart.

"Look, Sherlock--"

"You don't have to do this, John," Sherlock interrupted his next attempt. "It makes you uncomfortable."

"What if I want to do it?" John challenged. Sherlock turned his head to the side and snorted almost inaudibly. John clenched his fists.

"I love you," he said and it didn't sound as warm as he would have wanted the words to sound, seeing as it was only the second time he said them. Sherlock looked at him, pulled in by the words. It was so obvious he wanted to appear unimpressed when the opposite was true. He was very much impressed. It encouraged John to go on.

"Have since the day we've met, I think. And when... you left..." he took a deep breath. Funny how it still hurt, that. "God, it still hurts so much." John had to feel Sherlock then. He always did when he remembered those painful years, had to reassured himself that it was not a fever dream or a hallucination, that Sherlock was really still here with him. He walked over to Sherlock in the kitchen and pulled him into a hesitant hug.

"When you were gone, I didn't know what to do with myself. So I kept on as everyone expected of me. It was that or... worse. Do you understand?" Sherlock very carefully extracted himself from John's grip.

"Yes. I do. I pushed you into a happy relationship with the perfect woman, and I feel so very bad for it." He left John standing in the kitchen and walked into his room. John was confused.

 

* * *

 

John woke up to the screeching sounds of the violin. A glance at the clock on his bedside table happily blinked the time of 3:12 AM at him. He groaned loudly, frustrated.

He gave his idiotic flatmate two minutes to stop the infernal noise on his own before he would have to go down there and _make_ him stop. The time passed slowly and still there was no hint of him ever quieting down. Angrily John threw his duvet off and stomped downstairs. He was tired and groggy and imbalanced from getting up so fast, so he hit the wall once or twice. Making his own noises.

"Sherlock, I have to work tomorrow!" he bellowed when he entered the lounge. John didn't care about his volume. The neighbours were awake now in any way.

Sherlock looked at him and there was no other word to describe his look but 'dirty'. He didn't stop playing his violin, though. John set his jaw and tilted his head up. He took a few steps towards his flatmate.

"Sherlock, I swear if you don't stop this right this second, I will make you." John meant it to sound like a threat. With a flourish of his bow Sherlock stopped. For a second John was smugly satisfied, until Sherlock threw his violin onto the chair. John had never seen him treating this his most-prized possession with anything but the utmost care, no matter what kind of mood Sherlock was in. John frowned his brows in confusion and blinked a few times to wake up more fully. When Sherlock spoke, his voice was worryingly calm.

"Threats of physical violence. Those certainly never get old."

John took a step back. He had meant his words to sting and all, but well, he hadn't really _meant_ them.

"Sh--"

"What will it be? Hm, John?" Sherlock asked. He closed the distance that John had brought between them. "I've been beaten, whipped, caned. Kicked. Shot." He searched John's face, completely insensitive to the growing terror so plainly readable in those lines. "What will you do so you can go back to sleep?"

"I didn't... I wasn't going to hurt you!" John sputtered.

"No. Of course not. Only empty words." And Sherlock picked up his violin again. He slid his fingers over the corpus to look for marks his earlier treatment might have left on it. Satisfied that it was still perfect, he lifted it up to his chin. He didn't look at John when he started playing it again, punishing him by showing him his back, still defiance was edged into his every muscle and bone.

John stumbled backwards until his knees hit the edge of his chair and he sat down heavily. _Empty words_?

"I do love you," he said weakly. He was drowned out by the violin. Sherlock stopped abruptly.

"And yet you can't bring yourself to tell me without also reminding me that you do so despite me 'playing dead', as you always put it!" Sherlock hissed. He never hissed. He visibly shook on the spot and John saw him struggle to get it under control. Sherlock put his violin once more away, carefully this time, and walked to the window. His back to John, he looked out, but John doubted he would see anything. John only saw the figure of the man he loved and nothing else.

"I love you more than life itself, Sherlock," he said miserably. He wished he knew what else to say or do.

"I don't question it," Sherlock told him.

"Then what do you want me to do?" John asked and it was not a rhetoric question. "Tell me. I'd do anything. Anything at all." He was getting frantic. When it came to Sherlock, even John, who knew him best, was out of his depth more often than he cared to admit. So he was hoping Sherlock could help him now. He was sure Sherlock would tell him how to get out of this mess and leaned forward in anticipation. But Sherlock shrugged.

"This is not a competition, John," he said quietly but at least the dangerous calm was gone from his voice. "You don't collect points and no-one is keeping tabs."

"What do you want me to do?" John repeated emphatically.

"I don't want to be compared to her," Sherlock said just loud enough to be heard. John fell back into his chair.

"I don't!" he said, glad, because that a least was easy and true. He never thought about Mary and Sherlock that way. Apples and oranges, that. You can't compare what is incomparable. "Never," he added to drive his point home.

"Yes you do," Sherlock told him uncaringly. "All the time. And I always come up short." He sounded resigned, as if he had accepted it as a fact he could no longer change. John didn't understand. He shook his head helplessly.

"You told her you loved her in front of all your friends. She got to take your name. The only person who knows about us is Mycroft and that's only because he's an annoying, overbearing git with a nose too big for his own face he can't help but stick into other people's business, and not because I or you told him. He just knows." Sherlock sounded so resigned as he said this. John's throat was very dry suddenly and he swallowed a few times to relieve the sensation.

"I'll tell everyone," John said when he could again. Still his voice sounded screechy and painful. But maybe that were just the tears. Sherlock shrugged diffidently. "No, I'll do it. Do you want me to shout it from the rooftops, is that it? Because I will."

"No competition, remember," Sherlock said. "Besides I don't care if a few or a million strangers know." A few moments passed in silence while John tried to find the right words. They wouldn't come to him and he cursed his tongue and brain for not magically coming up with the perfect words. He could gush about Sherlock on his blog and to his friends, but John was never able to tell the man face to face, and he wanted to now more than ever. He needed to, to get out of this mess.

"I don't want to be your consolation prize," Sherlock whispered to the window pane and that clinched it. John shot up from his chair and walked over there, to pull him into his arms and Sherlock came so willingly, it tore at John's heart strings.

"I don't tell you as often as I should," John said into Sherlock's hair and the tears came now. He didn't try to stop them. "And I certainly don't show it as well as I should. But I love you more than I can say, I do, I promise! I think about you all the time. Every time my phone beeps I hope it's you and when it isn't I'm disappointed. No matter who I talk to I hate that they are not you. Every _second_ I spend without you I wish you were there. Even when I want to get away from you because you are so … _infuriating_ sometimes, you really are, I hurt because I'm not with you. You have no idea how strange that is, to want to be as far away from you as possible and missing you every step of the way. I don't like every thing you do, but I _love_ you and I wouldn't want you any other way." John took a deep breath and said with emphasis, "You're not a consolation prize. I am so sorry I make you feel like second best. I beg of you to allow me to spend the rest of my life proving to you that you are, and always have been, the best thing that has ever happened to me." He petered out here. Everything else John wanted to say would just be the same thing all over again in different words. Sherlock clawed into his shirt as if he wanted to crawl into John. It hurt.

"I don't know how to show you," John added at last. "You need to help me here. The last thing I want to do is make you feel as if I took you for granted." Sherlock didn't answer, he just hugged John tighter. John put his hand in his hair and pulled his head in for a kiss, because sometimes kisses can say what words couldn't. Sherlock responded readily if wetly. They were both crying.

A bit later Sherlock crowded John into his chair and sat on top of his lap, with his legs over the arm of the chair. They had stopped kissing by then. John pulled the blanket that was always on the back of the chair and threw it over the two of them. He pulled Sherlock closer to him and held him safe. He laced the fingers of his free hand tightly with Sherlock's and nuzzled into his hair. Sherlock was heavy like this but John was too content to move him. He _liked_ feeling Sherlock's weight against him. He felt so _real_ like this. It was worth a sleeping arm and more.

They fell asleep like that not long afterwards, exhausted as they were. It was Mrs Hudson who woke them late the next morning with a pot of tea and biscuits for Sherlock's breakfast. She cooed over them as happy as could be and though it was a bit embarrassing to be found in an intimate position as this, John only tightened his grip on Sherlock and smiled at their landlady-slash-substitute-mother.

 

* * *

 

 

John's eyes, with a will completely of their own, roamed over the figure Sherlock struck. It was one of those days when all the propriety Sherlock could muster was to throw on a dressing gown or a sheet but no more. This time it was night-time and he had spent all day sleeping, also not an uncommon occurrence. Yet John couldn't keep his eyes in check. And then he realised that maybe, he had no need to any more.

"You really hate wearing clothes, don't you?" John asked to break the ice cold silence and to brighten the mood. Sherlock shrugged, which made the sheet drop from one of his milky white, freckled shoulders. John gulped and watched him in silence for another while.

He had lit a fire earlier, it was the first cold night of the year and too early for the heating to be turned on. Now the lively flames threw Sherlock into a warm light that made him look absolutely unreal.

"I want to touch you," he confessed and licked his dry lips. He had Sherlock's undivided attention then.

"May I touch you?"

"You touch me all the time," Sherlock said and John wasn't sure if he was being coy or honestly oblivious. He could never tell with Sherlock.

"And you never ask," Sherlock added as an afterthought and the way he tilted his head and how his eyes became mildly interested, a bit calculating, John knew he was oblivious. He smiled a crooked smile, a wave of affection washing over him.

"Not like this." Instead of telling Sherlock, John decided to show him what he meant. He got up from his chair and grabbed the blanket that was always draped over its back. He put the blanket on the ground and fetched cushions from the couch and various other chairs in their lounge, which John then threw on the floor as well. They had a truly shocking amount of cushions. Lastly, after he had arranged everything more or less but in a decidedly cosy manner in front of the open fire, he held his hand out for Sherlock who watched him with wide eyes and loose lips, his mouth not exactly hanging open, but nearly. He hesitated and John could still see his confusion warring with his want to take John's hand.

"John?" Had John not watched Sherlock attentively, he might not have heard the softly-spoken word.

"C'mon," John replied gently and made sure that his smile was still as soft and as fond as before. He beckoned with his hand and finally, Sherlock took it and let himself be pulled up. As soon as he could, John looped his arms around Sherlock's waist and nuzzled at his neck and jaw. He was aware that his hair was tickling Sherlock there and let it, waiting for Sherlock to laugh and relax. It took a long, long while before he actually did and only then did John let go of him enough to look at him. He was grinning widely.

"Okay?" he asked and patiently waited for Sherlock's answering, if nervous, nod. "Okay." He pulled Sherlock down into the nest of blanket and cushions. Not that Sherlock was any help. He felt stiff in John's arms, but at the same time he followed whatever John made his body do, put arms and legs where John pointed them to and it was that that told John that he was just plain shy, but eager enough. And still not ready. But John could wait. He wasn't on a schedule.

Sherlock didn't dare presume and let John lead lest he did something that could put John off. That he came across rather stiff and unwilling was something he was either not aware of or something he was unable to help.

But then, John had Sherlock leaning back against his chest, John propped against the chair, with his legs on either side of Sherlock. He pushed Sherlock's head against his shoulder and then it was time to wait another minute, until Sherlock caught on that it was his turn now, his turn to move to make himself as comfortable as possible. He shuffled a bit around and turned his head into John's neck. John rewarded him with a kiss on the head that drew the most delightful little, contented sigh from Sherlock he had ever heard and it made John chuckle into the nest of curls before him.

"I've wanted to do this for ages," John told Sherlock quietly. He let his hands run over Sherlock's arms. He was of course still wearing his sheet and reminded John vaguely of a mummy, the way he was rolled into the fabric. John wanted so much to take away the thin fabric and touch the naked skin whose heat he could feel underneath, but he reminded himself to be patient. It was so much already to have Sherlock like this at all that he mustn't get greedy now and overwhelm him with more.

"You're so lovely. You're so lovely." John kept repeating these words and he meant them so much. He buried his nose in Sherlock's hair and took a deep, audible breath and then another one to memorise the scent. Sherlock's left hand sneaked out from between the folds of his sheet and he caught John's right in it. John stopped in his tracks and waited. He knew his Sherlock and knew that it must have taken him a lot of consideration and planning to do this, to touch John deliberately even if John had touched him first. Knowing all this, it was a surprise when Sherlock drew John's hand back below the fabric and out of sight. John's breath caught in his throat when his fingers came into contact with Sherlock's hotter-than-expected, almost feverish, skin.

"Yeah?" he asked breathlessly. Sherlock nodded his head and John could see the flush of his cheeks.

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed.

"Okay." He let Sherlock draw his hand to where he wanted it. John's thumb was on his belly button, the tips of his fingers felt wiry hair. It made his own skin break out in goosebumps, this proximity to where John could feel Sherlock's penis emanate incredible heat. On his shoulder, Sherlock's breathing sped up until he had to open his mouth to get as much air as he needed and all John had done was press his fingers rhythmically into the nest of hair above his penis.

"I love you," John whispered to Sherlock and Sherlock very nearly sobbed. John stroked along Sherlock's underbelly, around his hip and grabbed a handful of arse. Sherlock had to writhe onto his side to give him access, but it couldn't have been comfortable for him, so John let him go. He drew his hand back and rested it over Sherlock's navel.

John focussed some of his attention on Sherlock's neck next. He loved that neck, had been attracted to the pale length of it since the first time he saw it. He kissed it and bit it. John was a biter, and Sherlock reacted so delightfully. He bucked under John's hand, again and again, with every bite and very kiss until John's hand slid downwards. Again his fingers came into contact with the hair that was so different in feel than that on Sherlock's head, but no less fascinating. He buried his hand in it and tugged, just lightly, but Sherlock panted and groaned.

"John," he said, no begged. And John hadn't even truly touched him yet.

"Whatever you want," John promised against the soft skin of Sherlock's throat.

"Touch me, please."

John slid his hand lower and for the first time, he felt Sherlock's penis. It was unbearably hot and John imagined it must have been deep red with blood. It was hard under the sheath of silky smooth skin and John gently circled the head with his palm. On his shoulder, Sherlock was mewling. John found his lips with his own and swallowed the sound right off his tongue. It tasted delicious.

Sherlock gave up on any semblance of control when John started stroking him. His kisses were messy and wet, his tongue heavy and lazy as John sucked it into his mouth. Slowly he stroked the length of Sherlock, much much much too slow for anything to happen and Sherlock bucked into his fist impatiently, urging him on to pick up speed already. John loved this sweet torture. In the end, he held his fist still and let Sherlock fuck into it. Sherlock threw his head back as his pelvis snapped forward again and again and John had the best view to enjoy the graceful lines of Sherlock's body as he thrust himself to his climax. His release spilt over John's hand and was caught in the sheet that after all the movement still covered most of Sherlock's body. Wetness spread darkly on the white fabric. John had never seen anything more erotic.

 

* * *

 

John had gone to Chelmsford for a whole weekend. He left Saturday morning and wouldn’t be back before Sunday night. It was his high school reunion and he hadn’t invited Sherlock along.

Sherlock thought about this for a long time. He didn’t even want to come. None of the people John had gone to school with could tell him anything about John that would be interesting. Most had probably all but forgotten about him and the ones who didn’t, John still was in contact with. Sherlock _really_ didn’t want to sit through a whole night, morning and lunch of people shoving pictures of children at him. He had so many better things to do than fake interest at the lives of people he didn’t care about a bit. Still, it nagged at him that John didn’t ask him along.

He hadn’t said it outright. John had showed Sherlock the invitation when it came in the post and Sherlock could barely fake interest for that, and he actually cared about John.

“I’m going,” John had said after talking about it for ages. “I better take a hotel, don’t fancy taking the train when I’ll probably get pissed.” So, that’s how it went, and then John had left Sherlock behind.

Of course, that was when Sherlock realised how much he wanted to spend a weekend at a Premier Inn in Chelmsford. He gave John a few hours of a head start and then followed him to the city of his birth.

It was drab. It didn’t take much time for Sherlock to find out why John preferred London to this, even with the lower rent prices and the good transportation links into the capital. John wasn’t cut out to live his life in a small town when excitement beckoned only a 40 minutes' train ride away.

Getting into the hotel room was a bit more complicated than Sherlock had anticipated. He knew John's room number from going through his email, but the receptionist didn’t want to just let him in.

She was a young woman, pretty only because of her age, and her beauty would fade with the years. Sherlock could tell that she was a romantic, in a fresh relationship that wasn’t going the way she wanted it to go, but too much of an optimist to give up on it after only a short time. Of course, she would see it in the end and then hate herself for the waste of time and energy, but people needed to make their own mistakes, John always said. So, Sherlock let her believe herself in love and used her sense of romance for his own purposes.

“My husband is here for his high school reunion,” he told her conspiratorially. Many people here that weekend had come for the reunion which was taking place in a restaurant down the street and Sherlock hoped that at least some of them had mentioned it when they had checked-in. The eyes of the receptionist gleamed in recognition, so she had heard of it before. Good.

“John Watson,” Sherlock carried on. “I was supposed to go with him, but, you know, business. I got out early and thought I’d surprise him. I understand if you absolutely have to call him, but I’d be ever so grateful if you could help me surprise him. Please.” John called it his puppy-dog eyes, and they almost always worked on Molly Hooper and Mrs Hudson and sometimes even on John himself, so Sherlock used them now. He saw the resolve of the girl crumble and knew she was thinking of the very strong words she'd have from her manager if they found out, but also of all the films she'd seen were the happy couple were so, well, happy with the surprise. He knew she was picturing herself in John's shoes and that was how, five minutes later, Sherlock was in the room. As Sherlock had no inclination of actually going to the reunion, all he could do was wait for John now. He was glad he wasn’t a murderer. It had been so easy to get into this room.

 

* * *

 

When John came back, it was very late and he had drunk rather much. Rather much too much. That’s what looking at photos of one's 25-years-younger self does to a person, it makes them drink away the melancholy.

He went to the reception desk on wobbly feet and asked for the key card he had wisely left behind after too many forgotten coats and wallets in younger years. John had a history of losing things when drunk. The young woman blushed a bit at his sight and wouldn’t meet his eyes. Now, John was drunk, but he still had a trace of observation left in him.

“What’s up?” he asked much more soberly than he felt. The woman bit her lip and he knew then he had been right. He smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring, unassuming way.

“Your husband is here,” she said at last. She sounded sheepish and strangely proud at the same time, although it was also obvious that she knew she had done something against the rules. And _well_ , John thought, _clearly_. Because he wasn’t married.

“My husband,” he repeated. She nodded. Now, John hoped it was just Sherlock playing at who knows what, but he couldn’t be sure.

“Tall, dark and handsome?” he asked. The receptionist blushed and he knew he was on the right path and felt himself be able to breathe easier. He also knew that Sherlock's fanclub had gained a new member. John relaxed, hadn’t even noticed how he had stiffened before.

“Impossible blue eyes that make you break the rules even though you know better?” Her look changed from giddy to alarmed as she nodded.

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have let him in,” she started apologising until John waved her off with a hand.

“Don’t blame yourself,” he told her carelessly. “If that man sets his mind to something, he’ll get it.” When she still looked unsure, he added, “Seriously. Thank you. I’m happy to see him. I just hadn’t expected him.”

“He said he was able to leave work early,” she told him, very clearly very relieved she wouldn’t be in trouble. John didn’t know what he should say to that, so all he did was take his key card and nod a good-night at her and then he went up to his room.

Thankfully, it really was only Sherlock in there.

 

* * *

 

"Hello, husband," John said to the man sitting propped against the headboard of the bed, his legs crossed at the ankles. At John's address he threw the magazine he had been reading to the side and groaned.

"She told you. I knew she wouldn't keep it a secret," he complained.

John walked over to him and bent down for a kiss. "So sorry for ruining your plans of murdering me." His voice dripped with dry sarcasm. Sherlock hummed against his lips, content like a cat in a sudden ray of sunlight and smiling the same.

"I'll have to do it in your sleep then," he joked.

"I won't sleep then," John said straightening up again. "Unless you're going to do something to power me out, that is." He winked. A blush spread across Sherlock's cheek but he held John's gaze steadfastly.

"We'll see," he said to John's intense amusement.

 

* * *

 

"Wake up!"

John jolted awake, instinct taking over and he was fully awake in a heartbeat. But it was only Sherlock, and so after he had assessed the situation, John sank back into the pillows.

"It's not even light out!" His voice was muffled because of the pillow, but even so his mouth felt woolly. Up until that moment John hadn’t realised just how much he had drunk the night before. But as per the taste and more disgustingly, _feeling_ in his mouth, it must have been rather too much. He groaned.

"Why do you wake me up when it's still the middle of the night!?"

"6:30 is hardly 'the middle of the night'," Sherlock said calm as can be from somewhere next to John.

"On a Sunday it is," John mumbled but it was no good. He was awake now. Miserably, he turned on his back and looked up at Sherlock and then his bad mood just evaporated. Sherlock was so beautiful. His hair was a positive mess and there were a few blotches on his face from the pillow. He looked puffy and soft and John loved him to pieces like his.

"Come here!" He tugged at Sherlock's arm and pulled him against his chest, who came willingly. Sherlock's hand landed on John's belly. But it didn't stay idle for long when Sherlock slipped it under John's vest. John hummed contentedly. He sucked his belly in as Sherlock's hand made its way upwards to his nipples and John turned his face into Sherlock's hair.

"Is this why you woke me?" he asked fondly.

"You promised me sex," Sherlock said nonchalantly. "Just trying to get you in the mood." John chuckled.

"Let me get up and brush my teeth first," he pleaded and made to get up, but Sherlock refused to budge.

"But you've promised me!" he said petulantly from where he lay heavy on John's chest.

"Can't remember that," John said mildly. He pushed gently at Sherlock until the man, finally, rolled over onto his back.

"You certainly know how to kill the mood," he muttered under his breath. John loved him more fondly than ever, but he really needed to use the toilet and a long, extended teeth brushing session.

"You'll thank me for it," he called out to Sherlock who answered with a scornful huff of breath.

A few minutes later John was back, a minty taste in his mouth that, at least for now, covered that of stale beer and whisky, and recently washed on his more private areas.

"Where were we?" he said flirtily as he slid under the covers again and on Sherlock's back, because he had turned around to punish John with a cold shoulder. Thankfully, John wasn't so easily turned away. Especially not by a back as lovely as his boyfriend's.

He kissed along Sherlock's spine and let his hands slip around his waist and under his tummy. While he gently bit at the ridge of Sherlock's right scapula, he pushed his hands further down and pulled Sherlock's arse against his awakening cock and Sherlock pushed back into him. He moved a bit around, very tantalisingly, and made John hum into his skin.

"There you are," he whispered against Sherlock's shoulder. As the man was moving on his own now, John let his hips go in favour of his nipples. Sherlock breathed in sharply when John reached them and pinched both at the same time.

"Turn around." John's voice had dropped an octave. He refused to give Sherlock an inch more than was necessary to turn around and when Sherlock was facing him, John dove down to take his mouth. Sherlock was always so lovely to kiss, but even more so in the early morning, when he had just woken up, still a bit of morning breath on his tongue, but most importantly not as composed as he would be an hour or so later. Like this, John loved him with a burning passion.

He ground his groin into Sherlock's and it wasn't long before Sherlock started gasping and making little, desperate sounds. He was bucking up into John and John already knew that this wasn't going to be lasting for much longer. Eagerly, he pushed his hand into Sherlock's pants to draw out his lovely, pink cock.

"John!" Sherlock half-cried.

"Sssh, I've got you. I've got you," John purred against Sherlock's neck. He loved this neck, he was obsessed with it, it was turning him on more than anything had ever done, more than any pair of tits or any arse he'd ever seen. He lavished kisses on it that turned into nips that turned into bites and then he leaned back to admire his work, the soft bruises and the popped capillaries and still Sherlock was writhing underneath him and moaning what might have been John's name on a more collected tongue.

John pushed his own boxers down and that gave Sherlock a moment to cool so it was almost a shock to his system when John got back on top of him and this time, when he took Sherlock's cock in hand, his own was there as well. Sherlock arched against him, almost levitating of the bed and John readily admitted that this was an adequate reaction to the feeling of their cocks against each other.

"God, I love you I love you I love you so much," John babbled and willed himself to stay calm or this would be over in another second. "What do you want?" he asked and noted the near-hysterical tone in his voice.

"Want you to … want you," Sherlock moaned and pushed into John's hand. A shiver of greed washed over John as he realised he wanted to hear Sherlock say _it_. With burning eyes, he looked down at Sherlock as he pushed his index finger between the man's balls.

"Say it," he ordered, want loud and clear in his tone. Sherlock's eyes snapped open and after a moment the fog cleared and his gaze became sharp. It almost pushed John over the edge, that focus.

"Fuck me, John," Sherlock pronounced clearly and John, with a growl, attacked his neck once more. "Take me, claim me, make me yours, fuck me!" His voice was no more than a whisper by the end as John rocked them, pushed at Sherlock and at last, with a scream of so much exertion, turned Sherlock on his belly, arse in the air.

"Tell me you've got lube," he said, a threat unvoiced but there.

"Bag!"

John scrambled off the bed, staggering as if still drunk, his cock painfully erect and almost as if leading the way towards Sherlock's small overnight bag. He had to save his patience for when he would prepare Sherlock in a moment so he couldn't spare any now and just turned the whole thing over, grabbing the lube and the condoms where they fell out. He hurried back to the bed but even in his haste John took a moment to appreciate the sight that awaited him.

Sherlock, dressed, looked skinny, but like this, completely naked, he was anything but. Lean and muscled, not a gram of fat on him except for his arse, all his muscles stood pronounced. There were too many scars and John sobered somewhat at their sight, but they had had that conversation and it was in the past. Now there was only Sherlock, his chest heaving and his eyes very nearly black with lust when they turned to John.

"What are you waiting for!?" he barked impatiently and John laughed. God, but how he loved this imperious man.

* * *

Half an hour later Sherlock was leaking precum with three of John's fingers in his arse and John's teeth in his buttock. He was sobbing, his cock bright purple, almost blue, and begging underneath his breath, but John forbade him to touch himself and Sherlock was a good man, such a good man, the best man. John ran his hand along his spine.

"Are you ready, love?" he asked and Sherlock sobbed a laugh. "I think you're ready." He pulled his fingers out of Sherlock and smiled at the whine that that produced, then he aligned himself. The condom had been on him for a long time, almost from the very beginning. "Tell me if it gets too much." And then he pressed forward and it got another sob out of Sherlock when the first two inches sank in without any hesitance. Sherlock's arse glistened, a third of the bottle of lube on his cheeks, running down his thighs and of course in him, he felt hot around John and deliciously wet. And pulling him in ever more in gentle waves. John took care to pass by his prostate as much as was possible, knowing it would be too much now for the other man, but he pressed deeper steadily. He had him so well prepared, it was easy.

And then, when he was in as far as he could go in this position, John paused. Sherlock was incomprehensible beneath him and trembling. His muscles so tense from where he had been holding himself up all this time they were close to giving out from under him. So, John pulled out half the way and slammed back in. Sherlock howled.

Again and again John snapped his hips forward, never too far out, never very long strokes, but hard ones, and fast. The trembling became shaking and taking pity and looking ahead, John pulled out of Sherlock and turned him so he lay on his side. John pushed his legs up and pushed back in, more shallow now, not as forceful as before, but easier on them both.

"I'm going to touch you now," John gasped into Sherlock's ear, never losing his fast rhythm. "And you’re to come only when I say so." His hand found Sherlock's cock, so full of hot blood it felt like it could burn John's skin. A touch and he knew that the man's balls were drawn up tightly, ready to burst without notice, so John stroked him quickly.

"Come, now," he said and Sherlock did without a second's warning. His come didn’t trickle, it shot out of him in forceful spurts but the only thing John could care about was the way his body spasmed and his arse grabbed at John's cock, ready to snap it off, and surprised John came, too.

* * *

 _Minutes_ later they moved. With a grunt John pulled out of Sherlock, followed by a trickle of, what he hoped, was lube. A very quick look at the condom indicated it was still intact and for more, John wasn't able to care.

Sherlock lay half on his side, half on his belly and his breathing was just coming down. "Wet," was the first word he said and by then John had enough energy to look down and see the impressively huge wet spot on the bed. Had he had a bit more energy left in his body, he would have felt embarrassed, but now all he could do was tug at his partner and roll them both onto the side of the bed that was still dry, albeit ruffled. Sherlock fell down on John's chest with a huge huff and John found it amusing but couldn't laugh. He was too tired. The last thing he did before he fell asleep was to slip off the condom and drop it on the soiled side of the bed.

* * *

They had a lovely long shower that culminated in slow kisses and an even slower mutual wank before they headed off to John's reunion breakfast. John was too happy to spare a thought about why exactly Sherlock not only agreed, but did so _eagerly_ , when John invited him along. By the time Sherlock had introduced himself to the group at the table in the restaurant as John's husband, it was too late to do anything to prevent it.

* * *

And then, it became _a thing_. For all intents and purposes, they were married now.

* * *

"I don't mind when you tell strangers," John chided one night, "But when you go around telling Mrs Hudson, that's where I draw the line." Sherlock tutted metres away, sign that he was listening but not bothering with actual _listening_. John sighed.

Sherlock had dropped the husband line on their landlady earlier that day and the poor woman had gone pale. John saw it happening as if in slow-motion, noticed her growing quiet and sunken until eventually she, with a forced and painful smile, mentioned it again.

"You could have told me, you know," she said so sad. "I don't suppose you wanted me to be there, when you got married, but I thought that after all we have been through, you would have at least told me afterwards."

The guilt was painful and even Sherlock must have felt it, because he looked at his toes and for a moment was utterly still, before he confessed, "We're not actually married. It's just a joke."

"Really, Mrs Hudson, I promise you," John said as he reached for her hand and held it between both of his, "If we ever get married, we both want you there with us. You'll be our witness." And that seemed to brighten her up a bit.

It also got John thinking.

* * *

Obviously, Sherlock didn't mind the idea and John certainly wasn't averse to the thought. And when he saw the rings in the shop window that one day, it seemed like a sign. Surely someone was trying to tell him something.

* * *

"I need to see the doctor. Doctor Watson. I was with him in his last surgery." It was a good thing, too, that John had changed surgeries. They wouldn't let Sherlock in the old one anymore. Something about disrupting the business and not life-threatening? As if a cold was.

The new receptionist was a youngish one and she looked at Sherlock attentively, so he knew he would be able to make her do his bidding easily. A smile, a wink, and he'd have her in his pocket. It would be so easy he was already bored by it.

"I suppose you want to see a bill or something to check my new address?" He reached into his pocket for the freshly forged council tax bill.

"No, that's all right, Mr Holmes." It took Sherlock a moment to remember that he had given her a fake name and he straightened his back. He had completely underestimated her and now she had his full attention. "If you would just sit down in the waiting area, I'll tell Dr Watson that you're here and he will call you in when he has some time." And then she smiled. It was a wide, fake smile, but at the same time her eyes glinted telling Sherlock that she was enjoying herself immensely. He glared until she chuckled and then he was confused, he took a step away from the counter. She pressed the buzzer.

"Dr Watson, your husband is here. Used a fake name like you said he would, but it's definitely him. Should I tell him to sit down or do you want to see him now?" Over the intercom, John sighed.

"No, send him in."

"You can go right in, Mr Holmes. Exam room seven," the receptionist said overly politely, pointing to the left. Definitely enjoying herself. Sherlock glared once more at her and it had absolutely no effect. He would have to have a serious word with John. He couldn't just go around telling people that they weren't to be afraid of him.

Still. It was the first time John had introduced Sherlock as his husband and that lit something warm in him.

* * *

"We should get married," Sherlock said over breakfast. John looked at him seriously.

"Okay," he said and smiled. Sherlock was taken aback.

"That … was easy," he mused, sounding almost annoyed.

"Why, did you think I'd fight it?" John was amused as he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. "Go on then, ask me again and I'll say no so you can give me your speech. I bet it's got all these good arguments about how we'd be both better off married to each other."

Sherlock scowled. He didn't like being made fun of even though he liked that John was so comfortable with him that he would do it, and obviously, it wasn't vicious. Still, he had spent a good amount of time preparing arguments. Chuckling, John got up and disappeared into the bedroom they now shared. He came back after a minute with the small box in his hand, which he promptly gave Sherlock as he sat back down.

"I'm surprised you didn't find it earlier," he said and now he sounded more sober, a bit unsure and nervous. "I hid them between my socks."

Sherlock stared at the box. Jewellery box, big, containing more than one item. The logo on top was from a well-known jeweller and Sherlock had seen similar boxes before. Ring boxes. He was too afraid to open it just yet so he hid behind haughtiness.

"I don’t make a habit out of going through your things," he said, his eyes fixed on a point just beside John's.

"Yes you do," John said and now he was amused again so Sherlock could glare once more. It only lasted a second, then the gravity hit him once more. Taking a very deep breath, Sherlock reached for the box and opened it. In it were two silver, identical-but-for-the-size, rings. He took the bigger one and spun it between his fingers. The stamp told him it was platinum, the size that it was his. He was out of his depth and looked at John for guidance.

With a smile, John took the ring from him and reached for Sherlock's left hand. Then he slipped it on his ring finger. It was, surprisingly, a perfect fit.

"Men don't wear engagement rings, so this is actually a wedding ring." He couldn't seem to tear his eyes away from the sight of the ring on Sherlock's hand while Sherlock couldn't look anywhere but at John's face. "But if you amenable, I'd like you to wear it now until we can get married." Finally, he raised his eyes and gone was the humour, replaced by something darker. John swallowed and was warring with himself.

"I want you to marry me," he said resignedly but firmly. He set his jaw and raised his chin. "I want you to wear my ring so that people know you’re _mine_." John hissed the last word. He was becoming agitated, the thought that someone else could claim Sherlock riling him up. It was doing something within Sherlock that Sherlock tried to fight.

"Shouldn't you be telling me how much you love me and that you want to spend the rest of your life with me?" he joked. John didn't rise to the bait.

"I do and I want to. But that would be true even if we didn't get married."

"So we're getting married to stake a public claim on each other? Back off, this man is taken?" And God, Sherlock _liked_ that. His eyes flashed, his smile became grim and he looked at John with hunger. Yes, he liked that.

He scrambled for the second ring and none-too-gently put it on John's finger.

"It goes both ways," he said, almost like a warning.

"Wouldn't have it any other way," John shot back immediately.

**Author's Note:**

> Working-title "The slow burn one", I've been writing this, oh, _forever_? Please comment, like and share if you so want, and come and be friends on Tumblr at [yesilian.tumblr.com](http://yesilian.tumblr.com).


End file.
